Kit Grows Up
by celestial1
Summary: It's 1944, and Kit Kittredge works for the Cincinnati Register. Oh, and she goes by 'Margaret' now.
1. Chapter 1

**author's note**. Once again, kind of a random fandom for me. I used to write strictly NCIS but I've been branching out more and more lately. I've been a fan of the American Girl series of books & dolls ever since I was a kid (they _have_ been around since 1987!) and now that my daughter is old enough, we've sort of rediscovered that world. I've been reading the Kit books to her every morning before school - Kit is her doll of choice just as Molly was mine, all those years back - and I have to say, I really love her stories. I see a lot of parallels between her Depression-era struggles and all of the economic problems of today (sad to say, we have plenty of experience with _that_ around here). Plus, I love all of her feedsack dresses! Anyway, at the back of 'Meet Kit' in the Looking Back section, they mentioned that Kit would be 18 when World War Two broke out, and she would possibly become a war correspondent, since she'd had the longtime dream of writing for the newspaper. Needless to say, I took the bit in my mouth and ran with it - I've always been fascinated by World War Two, and Kit's such a great character I just had to know what happens to her when she grows up.

I was a little surprised - although perhaps I shouldn't have been - that there's actually a section for American Girl stories on this site. I guess I'm not the only one who never quite outgrew them. Also, I think it's funny how many Ben/Felicity stories there are; I've always _assumed_ that they'd end up together and even tried my hand at writing it, myself, back when I was about thirteen or so. Ben Davidson was _such_ a hottie, wasn't he?

* * *

_That boy's as scrawny as a plucked chicken now. But you mark my words - he'll grow into that voice and those ears and elbows someday. __And when he does, he'll be a handsome fellow._

_-_Aunt Millie in Happy Birthday, Kit!

**Kit Grows Up**

"Kit Kittredge."

The young lady in question didn't look up from her desk. "I go by Margaret now," she said.

"I'm sorry, but you'll always be Kit to me," the young man said. "Why don't you say hello to an old friend?"

Dragging her eyes from her work, Kit looked up, without recognition at first as she took in the tall figure before her. It was the familiar gray eyes that clued her in. And the first thought that sprang into her mind was: _Aunt Millie was right. He_ did _grow up handsome_. "Stirling Howard!" she exclaimed, and slipped from behind her desk for an impulsive hug. "What in the world are you doing here?"

"Dropping off some things for my boss," Stirling explained. "I work just up the street."

"I had no idea." Kit turned to a female co-worker. "Cathy, will you cover for me for a few minutes?" Cathy nodded. "Let's walk," she addressed Stirling, slipping a sweater over her shoulders.

"Let's." Stirling looked her over. In her navy skirt, yellow Peter Pan blouse, and pale blue cardigan Kit looked like springtime itself. Her blond hair was still worn in a sleek bob, tamed with a pair of bobby pins. In short, her unlooked-for loveliness left Stirling Howard slightly speechless.

"I see you're still with the _Register_," he began inanely as the elevator descended to street level.

"I think that Mr. Gibson just got used to seeing me around," Kit explained. "I started working here for real as soon as I was out of school. Of course it's not so unusual for a girl, now, with all the young men away at war, and -" She blushed, suddenly realizing what she'd said. "I'm so sorry, I don't mean -"

"I was classified 4-F," Stirling said, without a trace of bitterness. "It's all right. Have you learned to type properly, then?"

"With all ten fingers," Kit replied, wiggling her inky digits by way of proof. "I took a special course."

"What's your beat?" Stirling asked as the elevator doors opened and they crossed the busy marble lobby..

"War Desk," Kit said, causing Stirling to whistle his admiration. "It's not such a big deal, really," she continued offhandedly. "The news comes across the wires, and we type up the stories."

"Don't shortchange yourself," Stirling urged her. "Think of how many people depend on you for the news. And you like it, I'm sure."

"I _love_ it." Her face glowed, and it wasn't just the May sunshine. "And look at you - you've really grown _up_." This wasn't an exaggeration; she had to tilt her head back a little to look him in the eye. "What are you doing now?"

The Howards had moved out when Kit and Stirling were thirteen, and she'd seen him at increasingly infrequent intervals since then. Truth be told, she hadn't even thought about him for the longest time; now, he was working just up the street! "Well," he said, "I graduated early and then I managed one year of art school. Just one." His cheerful demeanor belied the years of abject poverty he'd endured, the ridicule, and the responsibility for his mother that he'd assumed at such a young age. "I'm working for an ad firm now and we've got a government contract, so there's plenty of work."

"'Buy War Bonds' and all that," Kit concurred. Being in the news industry, she saw it on a daily basis.

"You know the poster where Hitler's body is on the head of a chicken?"

"The Hitler Chicken?" Kit used her coworkers' nickname for the image that was ludicrous, but effective. "Your company did that?"

"_I_ did that," Stirling corrected, his thin chest swelling with pride. "It may be silly, but it's a good honest living."

"It's not silly at all," Kit said practically. "I'm so pleased for you. How's your mother?"

"Mother's very well, thank you," Stirling replied. "She keeps house for a lovely old widow at the edge of town. It was your mother's recommendation, actually, that got her the post. And how are the Kittredges? Still keeping boarders?"

"We're down to three," Kit explained. "Once Dad started working as an auto mechanic, Mother thought to shut down the boarding house, but we'd all grown so used to having the extra people around. And there are so many farm girls coming into town to do the jobs the men left behind. We have three young lady boarders - one of them actually works at the _Register;_ we take the train in together sometimes."

"And Charlie?"

"Charlie joined the Army after two years in the CCC," Kit explained. "He was saving money for college, but before he got out, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Now he's in it for the duration."

"Oh."

"But we hear from him often," Kit added hastily. "He's over in Europe - I can't wait to tell him that the Hitler Chicken is yours."

"Here's my building," Stirling said with evident regret. "It was wonderful seeing you again. I can't believe I've been working up the street from you all this time without knowing it."

"Don't be a stranger." Kit had a sudden inspiration. "Oh! Why don't you come by for supper tonight? I'm sure my folks would love a visit."

"Are you sure?"

"You remember the way, don't you?" She gave him an impish grin.

The smile he returned was a mile wide. "Of course I do."


	2. Chapter 2

"It's kind of a tight squeeze," Stirling laughed, folding his long legs inside the old treehouse. "How on earth did we ever fit?"

"We were a lot smaller then," Kit pointed out. "Don't go looking at me - I'm not the one that shot up to seven feet tall."

"I'll have you know I'm nowhere near seven feet tall - I'm a perfectly reasonable six-foot-two. _Oof_," Stirling grunted, shifting into a more comfortable position. "Then again, there were three of us."

"Ruthie's at Wellesley," Kit said, not quite managing to keep a small note of envy from her voice.

"Do you write to each other?"

"Sometimes," Kit said offhandedly. It didn't seem necessary to explain to Kit that the girls had somewhat grown apart as they'd aged. "This old treehouse has held up pretty well, hasn't it? Of course we mostly use it for storage, now. I keep thinking one of these days Dad and I'll take it apart for the lumber, but… somehow I haven't the heart to do it."

"Storage, huh?" Stirling looked around at the boxes draped with oilcloth. "You got anything interesting in here?"

"You might like this," Kit said, digging out a sheaf of papers. "'The Hard Times News' - I managed to save some of them."

"Look at this!" Stirling exclaimed. "Wow, we were so serious back then. I can't believe you even kept any of this stuff."

"Sure," Kit said bashfully. "I guess I just figured when you're a famous artist, it would be nice to have proof that I knew you, way back when."

"I'd say I'm well on my way with the Hitler Chicken," Stirling agreed in mock seriousness. "Hey, what's this? 'The Disappointed Princess,'" he read aloud.

Kit flushed. "Oh, that… that's nothing. Please?"

Stirling ignored her outstretched hand, turning towards the fading light in the treehouse's doorway to read the neatly typed pages. "This is really sweet, Kit. When did you write this? It must have been after I left."

Kit sighed. "Ruthie's sweet sixteen," she said finally. "It was my birthday gift to her." Kit's cheeks burned in remembered embarrassment: Ruthie's party had been an exercise in not fitting in, as far as Kit was concerned. She felt so shabby and second-rate next to all of Ruthie's new friends, all of whom had probably never picked tomatoes or fed Aunt Millie's chickens or worn a feedsack dress. And she'd been so proud of her gift, an original princess story written especially for Ruthie. She'd worked on it for weeks, using up sheets and sheets of her precious typing paper, only to have it look sadly homemade and second-rate next to the other gifts. Ruthie, of course, was cordial on receiving her gift but somehow, it got tossed aside. And at the end of the night, as Kit was leaving, she spied her story in the pile of waste paper bound for the dustbin. Kit never could decide if it was accidental or not. She'd hastily retrieved it and walked home quickly, willing the tears to hold back until she was safely ensconced in her attic bedroom.

"She must have loved it," Stirling was saying.

"Hm." Kit was noncommittal. "Like I was saying, it's just a bunch of old junk out here. We really should tear this place down before it falls down on its own."

"I'm glad I got to see it again, first," Stirling said. "Weren't we just a bunch of cut-ups back in the day? I can't believe we actually ended up in jail. In Kentucky, at that."

"_I_ can't believe your mother didn't drop dead from shock when we told her," Kit agreed.

"I think those were some of the best years of my life," Stirling mused. "Living here - I mean, in the house, not out _here_. Everything was so strange, after my father left, and…"

"Did he ever turn up? I'm so sorry," she added hastily, "that's none of my business."

"He never did." Stirling's tone was noncommittal. "I honestly don't even know if he's alive or dead. You know, I spent so many years wondering, thinking what I would say to him when he came back - _if_ he came back - and one day I realized it didn't matter. I became the man of the house the day he left. Everything we've done since then, we've done without his help."

"I like to think," Kit said solemnly, "that he'd be proud of you."

Stirling's smile flashed over his face like quicksilver, and suddenly the mood lifted. "Because of the Hitler Chicken."

Kit leaned back against the rough boards of the treehouse's wall and drew a deep breath. "Hey Stirling, there's something I should tell you."

Stirling fixed his gray eyes on her face. "What's that?"

"I'm engaged to be married."

If he was surprised, he hid it well. "I don't see a ring," Stirling remarked, inspecting her naked left hand.

Kit retrieved the chain from her blouse. "I never got used to wearing it on my hand," she admitted. The diamond chip glinted in the fading light.

"Congratulations, or is it best wishes? I never can remember what you're supposed to say to the bride." Stirling seemed perfectly genuine. "Who's the lucky guy?"

This was the moment Kit had been dreading. "Roger Fulton," she said quietly.

"Turkeypants?" Stirling spluttered. "You're marrying _Turkeypants_?"

"I know, I know," Kit said quickly. "I know he was… rather unpleasant when we were kids. But really - he's changed. He's a perfectly nice young man now."

"Is he?" Stirling's voice was ice.

"He is. People can change, Stirling, you _know_ they can. We worked on the school paper together, and… and it just sort of grew from there. He joined the Navy the week after Pearl Harbor. Before he shipped out, he asked me if I'd marry him."

"I see."

"And I said yes, of course," Kit finished lamely.

"If you're happy," Stirling said finally, "then I'm happy for you. Truly I am. When's the happy occasion?"

"I told Roger I couldn't possibly think of being married until the war ends," Kit explained, "whenever that may be. My work at the paper is far too interesting for me to settle into domesticity a moment sooner than I must."

Something like hope crossed Stirling's face, but only for a second. "Then I hope, for your sake, that the war ends soon."

"For all our sakes," Kit corrected.

"It's getting dark, I'd better go." Stirling began uncoiling his lanky body. "Thanks so much for inviting me - I've missed your mother's cooking."

"You should come again sometime," Kit said automatically. "Mother's right - you're way too skinny. We need to fatten you up."

"I might just do that." Stirling paused in the doorway of the treehouse, and looked at her as if seeing her through new eyes. "Don't be a stranger, Kit Kittredge."


	3. Chapter 3

Kit was surprised at how easily the old friendship came back, as if they hadn't missed all those years. Like a puzzle that had been put away unfinished. She'd see Stirling every week or every other week: he'd bring in stacks of ads and editorial cartoons for the paper, and when he did, he always slipped a funny drawing to Kit. She had a whole collection of them in her desk by the end of the summer. Or he'd drop by for supper on a Saturday night and end up in a passionate but friendly debate with Mr. Kittredge about the latest news. Sometimes Kit would go down to the lunch counter and find him there and she'd plop right down on the next stool, trading jokes and barbs over grilled cheese sandwiches. And Stirling was intelligent enough not to mention Roger.

Although, it was impossible to ignore Roger altogether when he sent Stirling a letter.

_June 17, 1944_

_Dear Stirling,_

_Margaret wrote me that she had bumped into you on the street. Glad to hear that you're doing well. Quite proud to learn that a local boy is the creator of the famous 'Hitler Chicken' - of course we've all heard of it, even out here where our enemy is the Japanese._

_Actually, I'm glad for the opportunity to express my apologies. I was pretty nasty to you when we were kids, and there was no call for that. I hope you can forgive me. I know it doesn't excuse it, but I think the reason why I singled you out for punishment was because your father had left, and I was so terrified that mine would do the same. We lived with that fear for so long, it was almost a relief when he __**did**__ leave, and I like to think I became a much better person after that._

_You don't have anything to worry about on Margaret's behalf. I intend to take mighty good care of her. She's the girl of my dreams and the thought of her has sustained me during all these months at sea._

_For Margaret's sake, I hope you will consider me a friend._

_Sincerely,_

_Roger "Turkeypants" Fulton, Seaman, U. S. Navy_

* * *

Kit had, of course, written to Roger almost immediately about her chance encounter with her old friend. She did so without even the slightest twinge of guilt, because of course she had nothing to conceal. She and Stirling had known each other for ages - since they were children - why, they were practically brother and sister. But after a few weeks, Kit looked over one of her letters to Roger and realized that three out of seven paragraphs were about Stirling Howard. And that wouldn't do at all. With a little frown Kit tore the sheet out of her typewriter, crumpled it and threw it away. And thereafter her letters mentioned Stirling not at all.

For someone in the newspaper business, Kit was remarkably unobservant. Or perhaps she was determined not to see it. But if Kit had paid attention to Stirling's eyes, she would have seen. The way he lit up like the Fourth of July upon seeing her, the sidelong glances he sneaked when he thought she wasn't looking, the way his eyes lingered on her back when she left him. A casual observer might have been forgiven in believing them not old friends but a pair of lovers.

One Wednesday in September Kit arrived at their lunch counter and, instead of sidling alongside him as she usually did, approached with uncharacteristic anxiousness. Stirling greeted her cheerily, but Kit held back for a moment. "Why don't we get a booth?" she suggested.

Stirling studied her face as they slid across cracked vinyl upholstery. "Is everything all right?" he asked her, trying to recall their conversations over the last few days. Perhaps he'd revealed more than he'd intended to.

But Kit smiled warmly. "Everything is fine," she reassured him. "I just wanted to talk to you, is all." A bored waitress came around to their table and both ordered the usual: a hamburger and chocolate milk shake for Kit, grilled cheese for Stirling. Kit leaned her elbows on the table, her fingers interlaced. "Listen..." she began. "I was thinking about what you said. About your father. How you didn't even know if he was alive or dead. And I hope you won't think I'm a busybody, but I just thought... Well, I thought if it were me, I would want to know."

Stirling looked down at the stained tabletop, then back at Kit. "I don't think you're a busybody," he said.

"Oh, good." Kit relaxed. "Because, see, I thought I could help. So I wrote to an acquaintance of mine at the Chicago Tribune and she sent me this." Kit pulled out a thin white envelope, sealed, from her bag. "I haven't read it - I don't know what it says."

Stirling's face was grave, although he truly wasn't offended. "I see." He picked up the envelope and held it in his hands for a full minute. When he finally did open it, he did it quickly, as if he was afraid of changing his mind. The contents weren't much to look at: a thin typewritten sheet and a small newspaper clipping, not more than two inches square. Kit watched him anxiously, searching for signs of distress. A curious stillness settled over them despite the din of the busy diner. It wasn't until after the waitress had reappeared and set their plates in front of them that Stirling finally spoke again.

"He died," Stirling said. "Three years ago."

"Oh," said Kit. "I'm sorry."

Stirling looked down as he re-folded the letter and stuffed it back into its envelope. When he looked up again, his expression had changed. "It's all right," he said, adding a smile to comfort Kit. "Honestly, I'm not at all surprised."

Kit looked at him for a long moment, then picked up her hamburger with both hands and took a bite. "You're taking it well," she said through a mouthful of lettuce and pickles.

Stirling shrugged. "I figured out a long time ago," he said, toying with the sprig of parsley on his plate, "that my father wanted nothing to do with Mother or me. It's awfully hard for me to feel sorry for him now."

"Stirling..."

"When he left," Stirling continued, "he told me it was to look for work. And I believed him. For _years_ I believed him. It wasn't until I was a teenager that I realized he'd actually wanted out for years - the Depression was just an excuse."

"Why would you say that?"

"I honestly can't recall ever seeing my parents happy together," Stirling confessed, stripping the leaves of parsley from the stem. He wasn't used to baring his soul like this, but with Kit across the table from him, the words came easily. "Dad traveled a lot for work, but maybe that was an excuse. I have maybe ten good memories of the two of us together." Stirling drew a deep breath. "He wanted to play catch with me, and I was so excited. I knew it was the kind of thing that boys did with their fathers. And I've always been mad for baseball." Kit grinned at this. "But the glove was too big for me, or maybe I was too small for the glove."

"It didn't end well," Kit guessed.

"I got a bloody nose. Needless to say, Mother put a stop to any future athletic endeavors." He grinned ruefully. "Sometimes I thought he was unhappy because of me. I'm sure I wasn't an easy kid to have around, and my mother was always fussing over me."

Stirling chuckled, and Kit laughed out loud. "Your mother could fuss like nobody's business."

"Some of it was genuine - I _was_ a scrawny little thing - but some of it was Mother's nature," Stirling said. "I thought Dad was unhappy because Mother fussed so much, but maybe she fussed so much because she and Dad were unhappy."

"I feel sorry for him," Kit said philosophically. "He never got to know you as you grew up. And I think you've turned out swell."

Stirling flushed. "Well, at least now I've found out what became of him."

"Are you sorry that you know?" asked Kit.

"Not at all."

* * *

On the dreariest possible day in November, Kit came home to the grim faces of her mother and father.

"Kit, honey," Mrs. Kittredge began, "there's been a telegram."

Kit's knees buckled and she dropped into a chair. "No," she pled, "not Charlie."

"Not Charlie," Mrs. Kittredge agreed. "Sweetie, it's Roger."

* * *

Kit looked up at her old friend with dead eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard about Roger," Stirling explained. He hadn't seen her for a week in any of their usual haunts, and he'd been worried enough to investigate. He sat opposite her at the kitchen table and took her cold little hand between his own. "I am so, so sorry for your loss."

Kit pulled her hand away. "It's none of your concern."

"Of course it is," Stirling pleaded, gray eyes sincere. "I care what happened to you - I'm your friend."

Kit stared at him. Hard. "Is that what you are?"

"I always have been." Later on, he would curse himself for not turning around and leaving after those words. Kit buried her head in her arms. "Look," Stirling said. "I know this seems like the end of the world, but it isn't."

"There's no way you can know that."

Stirling drew a deep breath. "When my father left..."

Kit's head snapped up. "That's not even close to being the same thing."

"I know it's not," Stirling agreed.

"Then why even bring it up?"

"I was thinking of my mother," Stirling said. "When she realized he wasn't coming back, she looked exactly the same as you do now."

"Oh."

"She believed she couldn't go on - I know because she said as much," Stirling continued. "She wanted to lay down and die, but she didn't. She turned out fine." He smiled, and did not mention the Herculean effort it had taken on his own part to get his mother to take responsibility for her own life. "I know you'll be fine - you have way more gumption than she ever did."

Kit ignored the compliment. "But at least your mother had been married. No one feels sorry for a woman whose fiancee has died."

"I do," Stirling said, very quietly. "And, Kit - you will find someone to love. I know you will."

"That's a terrible thing to say," Kit retorted. "May I remind you that Roger _just_ died?"

"I know," Stirling said. "I didn't mean -"

"You're not very good at this."

"I know I'm not." He was the most patient of men but every man has his limit. "I shouldn't have come." He stood, gathered his coat and hat. "I'm sorry I've offended you, Kit."

"_Margaret_. Why can you never get that straight? Roger never had any trouble with it." Stirling recoiled. He'd expected grief, but not anger. He almost didn't recognize her.

"If you ever want to talk," he said, "you know where to find me."

"I know why you came here," Kit retorted. "You came here to gloat. You just couldn't stand the idea of my marrying Turkeypants."

Something inside Stirling snapped. "Do you know what _I_ think?" he replied, matching her tone. "I think you're relieved. I don't believe you ever had any intention of becoming Mrs. Roger Fulton."

"I loved him," Kit retorted, "not that you'd know the first thing about that."

"I know enough," Stirling muttered.

Kit looked up at him, the pain in her eyes replaced with pure hate. "Stirling Howard," she said in evenly measured tones, "I never want to see you again."


	4. Chapter 4

Life went on, as it has a habit of doing. Kit dried her eyes, threw away all of Stirling's sketches, and returned to the War Desk. Christmas came and went with no letter from Charlie, which was worrisome.

And then, in the second week of January, there was another telegram.

* * *

_February 6, 1945_

_Dear Kittredge Family,_

_I know that those War Department telegrams leave much to be desired, so I thought I'd take a few moments and write you with further information. Sergeant Kittredge arrived in England a few weeks ago after being wounded in battle, and I was one of the physicians assigned to his care. We see so many wounded soldiers, but we strive to do our utmost. Like all of our fighting boys, the support of our families and friends on the home front does much to advance our cause._

_You should know that the decision to amputate is never made lightly. Although I was not a participant in this case - Sgt. Kittredge's right leg was taken off above the knee in a field hospital before he was brought here - it's a judgement call that I, personally, have made in other instances. However, when it's a case of losing a limb to preserve a life, I like to think that I am allowing one of our fighting men the opportunity to return back home._

_Sgt. Kittredge is looking forward to returning home when he is sufficiently recovered from his injuries. He informs me that the Cincinnati Reds are the greatest baseball team in the country. Being a Chicago man myself, I tend to disagree, but he makes his point quite eloquently._

_Sincerely,_

_Captain James McIntire, M.D._

* * *

It took some careful shuffling, but Mother arranged to have Charlie's sleeping porch freed up by the time he came home. They were down to three boarders by then, anyway, and Mother had decided not to place any more ads for the time being. It was a glorious early-spring day and they'd tossed open all the windows to catch the breezes. After the winter they'd had, it seemed right somehow - like the day was full of hope. And as they cleaned and polished and made batches and batches of Charlie's favorite cookies, Kit didn't even realize that she hadn't thought of Roger at all that morning.

Dad drove the car down to Union Station to pick up Charlie - it was torture for Mother and Kit (who'd begged off work) to stay at home, but they trusted Dad to know what was best. "Besides," Mother said, "I'll probably make a scene and you know how Charlie's always embarrassed by that." Kit grinned a little - straightforwardness was one of the traits she and her brother shared, so she understood perfectly. But still. Mother kept sweeping the front stoop, over and over, long after it was clean. Kit had given up on accomplishing anything in her state of mind and was simply lolling on the grass. Mother looked at her watch for the hundredth time that morning and said, "Maybe the train was late" - when they saw Dad's car turn the corner at the end of the street.

"Let's wave our handkerchiefs," Kit suggested, and Mother stood beside her at the curb. At the last minute Kit glanced over. "Mother!" she whispered. "Your apron!" Mrs. Kittredge had forgotten she even had it on; she stripped it off hastily and passed it to Kit, who wadded up the offending article and stashed it in the crotch of the nearest tree. Nervous smiles dawned across both of their faces as Dad turned into the driveway and stopped the car.

But when Dad opened the driver's side door, Kit knew immediately that something was wrong. His face was grim under his hat and as he shook his head at the women, she had a horrible thought that maybe Charlie hadn't come home after all - that there'd been a mix-up with the trains - that his transport home had been torpedoed by a U-Boat - but Dad crossed over to the passenger's side wordlessly and opened the door.

Some fumbling with a pair of crutches, and there he was in the driveway, tall and olive-clad. Kit suddenly had the most irrational urge to laugh - with the missing leg and the scar over one eye, he looked absurdly and unaccountably like a pirate. She held back and let Mother go to him first, and was slightly puzzled at what happened then.

"Hello, Mother," Charlie said in a strange voice, and that was when Kit finally looked at his face. She couldn't put it quite into words - Kit Kittredge, who was never at a loss for words - but something was _off_. He didn't look like himself, like the cheerful big brother she'd loved so fiercely. Suddenly he was a stranger to her. Mother must have felt the same way, because Kit could tell she wanted to hug him, but she didn't. She only put out one hand and squeezed his shoulder, and then hugged her arms to herself, as if to contain the impulse somehow.

"Hello, Charlie," Mother said simply. "It's so good to have you back, son."

Dad slammed the trunk of the car, and Charlie jumped. He was too thin, and he looked miserable, hunched over his crutches. "Hi, Charlie," Kit said, watching Dad sling Charlie's green duffel bag over his shoulder with an air of familiarity. "I missed you."

Charlie looked at her strangely, as if he hadn't even realized she was there. It was almost as if he was looking through her. "Yeah," he said.

Kit looked around, bewildered. "Umm… here, I'll carry this," she announced to no one in particular, seizing upon a small cardboard box tied with twine. She vaguely wondered what was inside - letters, maybe?

"Well," Mother said briskly, "no sense in standing around in the yard, is there?" She led the way to the front door and they all followed behind, a strange parade with Charlie on crutches, Dad with the bag, and Kit bringing up the rear with the box and Charlie's hat that she'd retrieved off the front seat.

Their little procession halted inside at the foot of the stairs. "I'm pretty tired, Mom," Charlie said, and he looked it. "Where am I sleeping?"

"I rearranged the rooms so your sleeping porch is free," Mother said proudly. "And all the boarders are gone for the day, so it should be nice and quiet upstairs."

"Well, then." Charlie turned to face the stairs, and Kit suddenly had a vision of him, younger, whole and carefree, striding up the stairs two at a time. A lump rose in her throat at the awful realization that he'd never do that again. _Never._ She blinked furiously to stop the tears from forming.

A horrified look crossed Mother's face. "I'm so sorry," she faltered, "we never even thought about the stairs…"

"It's fine," Charlie almost snapped at her. "I'll manage."

And manage he did, though Kit couldn't even watch after the first few steps. It took him ten agonizing minutes to reach the top of the stairs; then he turned wordlessly and stumped down the hall to his room. Dad had his arm around Mother's shoulder as they watched and once Charlie's door had banged shut upstairs, she turned and buried her face in his shoulder.

The storm clouds that rolled in that afternoon didn't seem to disturb Charlie's rest; but Kit forgot all about Mother's apron, stashed in the tree outside, and it was quite ruined.


	5. Chapter 5

The thing that none of them had realized was that once Charlie had gotten up the stairs, he had no intention of coming down again. Mother brought him food on trays, which he barely touched, and wore a more and more strained expression as the weeks wore on. Kit went to work every morning and came home every night and barely saw him. And anyway, she had plenty to keep her mind occupied with her work. She had the sense that the war was winding down; that the hard times which had distinguished so much of her young life might finally be coming to an end. And then, when she'd stand in the newspaper offices and breathe in the smell of ink and relish the sound of typewriters clacking merrily away - she'd remember Roger, entombed in his ship at the bottom of the Pacific. Stirling, with whom she'd lost a precious friendship. And Charlie, cloistered in his second-floor bedroom, the sound of crutches on the floor occasionally coming from behind the closed door. And then Kit would feel guilty for feeling so happy.

"In my time," Dad said one night when all the boarders had gone to bed, "they called it 'shell-shock.'"

"I got a pamphlet from the Red Cross when I was downtown," Kit said, "but it didn't really help."

"I don't remember it being like this when you came home from the war," Mrs. Kittredge put in.

"True," Jack conceded, "but then, I had a wife and baby son to look after. And I wasn't wounded. Not that it matters all that much - I saw men who didn't have a scratch on them who..." His voice trailed off. "Who were never the same again."

"He lost his leg," Kit said. "Isn't that enough?"

"The war to end all wars," Dad said with sudden passion. "That's what they called it the last time around. And we all went marching off to fight the Kaiser. We somehow had this idea that if _we_ did it, our sons wouldn't have to. Look where _that_ got the world."

"Jack," Mrs. Kittredge warned.

"What do we do?" Kit asked. "I can't keep ignoring the problem forever."

"We wait," Dad said simply.

* * *

One night Kit woke up in her attic bedroom and couldn't fall asleep again. She laid in her bed in the alcove, looking up through the leafy branches at the stars for the longest time, and then she rose. Driven by a force she couldn't quite explain, Kit slipped into her wrapper and went down the stairs. A sliver of light under Charlie's door confirmed what she had suspected - he wasn't asleep either - but her hand was arrested mid-knock. She slipped down to the kitchen and knocked on his door ten minutes later, balancing two cups of tea in her other hand.

"Who is it?"

"It's me," Kit said, feeling rather foolish. "I can't sleep."

A heavy sigh huffed on the other side of the door, followed by the familiar clumping of one foot and crutches. "All right," he said, swinging open the door. "You can come in, I guess."

"I made us some tea," Kit said helpfully. She was surprised to find him fully dressed. "There's no sugar, though. Mom would kill me - we have to save our ration for the boarders. I've gotten used to taking it without."

"I'm sure it will be fine," Charlie said, sinking into the old wicker chair with a fleeting expression of pain. Kit handed him a cup and saucer and perched on the edge of the bed, since there was nowhere else to sit. She looked around the room: it was strangely neat, considering that Charlie'd always been sloppy. Must be the military discipline. There were a few bottles of pills and a stack of books piled on the nightstand - and, of course, the crutches which were now leaning in the corner - but otherwise it could have been anyone's room. There wasn't a single photograph, letter, or memento in the room to indicate that Charlie Kittredge spent twenty-three hours a day within its confines.

Kit took a genteel sip. Mrs. Howard would be so proud. "You're going to have to come downstairs eventually, you know."

Charlie snorted. "Mother put you up to this?"

"No," Kit replied, stung. "I told you, I couldn't sleep."

"Sure." Charlie set down his cup a little too loudly on its saucer.

Kit leaned forward. "Look," she said. "I missed you when you were gone, Charlie." He looked away from her, and out the darkened window. "But the thing is… I still miss you. I mean, we're here under the same roof - in the same _room_, even - but you're not really _here_. And you know, in a way, that's almost harder."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, all right?" Charlie retorted, not sounding like he was sorry in the least. "I'm sorry that I can't be different. I'm sorry I can't be what you and Mom and Dad and everyone wants me to be. This is how things are now and we can't change it."

Kit smiled faintly. "You know, that's the most words you've spoken to me since you've been home."

"You don't understand."

"I don't," Kit conceded. "But, you know it hasn't all been fun and games around here, either."

"I'm sure it's been _really hard _not having any sugar for your tea."

"That's not fair and you know it," Kit declared passionately. "It's been so much more. Rationing, and watching all my friends go off to war. Worrying when there's no letter and worrying when there _is._ Dreading the telegram, a strange car in the driveway, a knock at the door. And…" Kit looked down at her hands. "And Roger."

Charlie set his teacup down gently on its saucer. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean…"

"Make you a deal," Kit said suddenly. "I won't feel sorry for you if you won't feel sorry for me."

Charlie stuck out his hand. "Shake on it," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

Things didn't change right away, of course. If life was like a fairy tale, Charlie would have appeared at the breakfast table the next morning, fully dressed and chipper as can be - and maybe with his injuries miraculously healed. But Kit didn't believe in fairy tales any more (not _much_, anyway). And she knew that any change in Charlie would be enacted by Charlie himself, and by the passage of time. But, when Kit bounded down the attic stairs a few days later, she found Charlie standing in his door waiting for her. "Hey, Squirt," he called.

She looked him up and down. "For your information, Charles Jackson Kittredge," she said haughtily, "I go by Margaret now."

"I'm sure you do, _Squirt_." The corners of his mouth twitched into the ghost of an actual smile.

She sighed. "Will you please at least call me Kit?" she asked, resigned.

"Fair enough, Kit." She wasn't mistaken - he _did_ look happy. "Look, I need your help, all right?"

"What can I do?"

Charlie glanced towards the stairs. "I think today is the day."

Kit grinned. "Ooh, I just knew today was going to be special. What do you want me to do?"

"I'm not really sure," Charlie admitted. "I haven't figured out _down_ yet. Will you at least pick me up if I go hind end over teakettle?"

"Absolutely." She kept pace with him as he approached the top of the stairs. "Where's Mom and Dad?"

Charlie knew what she was really saying: _why didn't you ask them for help? _"Well," he said, "Dad needs to fix things. This, I need to work out for myself. And Mom: she'll feel sorry."

"Poor Mom," Kit said. Actually, _she_ still felt a tiny bit badly for Charlie, but as per her agreement, she kept it under her hat. "Ready?"

"Ready." It took them a few tries to work out the mechanics: after a few steps, the crutches were abandoned, and Kit carried them under one arm as Charlie leaned on her shoulder and the banister. By the time they reached the bottom, they were both sweaty and slightly breathless, and they'd raised such a racket Kit was surprised Mother, Dad, and all the boarders hadn't come running.

From the other side of the swinging door, Mother's voice was cheery. "Good morning, Miss Huddleston! Pass the coffee?"

Kit helped her brother steady himself as he fitted the crutches under his arms. "Hey, we did it, Squirt," he said.

"Margaret."

"We did it, _Kit_. You ready to go in there?"

"I really have to get to work," Kit apologized. "Mr. Gibson will have my head on a platter."

"But you haven't had your breakfast," Charlie objected, "and it's the most important meal of the day."

"You sound like a poster," Kit teased. " 'Oatmeal For Victory!' I usually just grab a slice of toast and eat it on the run. News moves fast, you know."

"Well, come on, then," Charlie urged. Kit pushed open the door and Charlie made his way through it, to the delighted squeals and shouts of the family and boarders. In the clamor Kit pocketed a boiled egg and a few slices of toast; as she was about to slip away unnoticed, Charlie caught her eye and winked at her.

* * *

Kit froze on the stairs. The piano hadn't been played in so long she'd almost forgotten what it sounded like. Charlie didn't see her as his fingers idly drifted over the keys, which were horribly out of tune. Kit held her breath as he picked out a few lines of one song, then another.

"Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag," Charlie sang suddenly, his voice a mocking imitation of joy, "and smile, boys, smile." Then there was a terrible bang as he slammed the lid of the instrument shut.

* * *

"Mail call, Squirt?"

"Aunt Millie sends her love," Kit replied, ignoring the hated nickname. "She's saving her gas rations for a visit. Here - you can read it for yourself."

Charlie took the letter from Kit's outstretched hand. "What else?"

"How do you know there's something else?"

"You have a certain air of expectation," Charlie grinned.

"Gibb - Mr. Gibson gave me two tickets for the Reds game," Kit blurted. "I did him a favor, and that's how he paid me back."

"And?"

"Come with me, Charlie," Kit pleaded. "It's been so long since we've been to a baseball game together. _So_ long."

Charlie's face clouded over almost immediately. "I'd rather not," he said. "I have no intention of making a spectacle of myself."

"Maybe you'll feel differently when you've got your new leg," Kit suggested.

"Heaven only knows when that will be," Charlie said bitterly. "Probably not until the war is over."

"It'll end soon," Kit soothed. "It has to."

"That's what I thought in '42."

Kit could see that the conversation was shutting down fast. "Please?" she begged. "We'll take a streetcar to Crosley Field. I'm dying to go."

"You don't understand," Charlie argued. "People will stare."

"They won't," Kit argued. "I promise they won't."

"We'll see."

* * *

Charlie choked on his coffee. "You're wearing _that_?"

A purple polka-dotted blouse and a red plaid skirt. Violently argyle socks with one saddle-shoe and one rubber boot. A bilious green flowered scarf and to top it all off, a discarded hat of Aunt Millie's crowned with enormous yellow flowers and, inexplicably, a sequined bunch of grapes. "I told you," Kit said quite calmly, "no one will stare at _you."_

Charlie looked at her strangely, and not because of her outfit. "When did you stop being my kid sister?"

"You've been gone a long time," Kit said simply. "Ready to go?"

Charlie stared a moment longer. "Hand me my crutches," he said at last.


	7. Chapter 7

**author's note.** Sorry for the delay - in-laws came into town, so I actually had to clean my house. Ugh. Thanks for your patience. Also, I got hung up on this chapter for some reason. The rest of the story is actually written - I'm one of those weirdos who writes the ending before the beginning - so it's just a matter of tweaking and uploading; the last few chapters should be up soon. I'm having lots of fun.

I actually set out to write a Kit-and-Stirling story, and not a Kit-and-Charlie story. And yet, Stirling hasn't been around since Chapter Two and it's been all Charlie, all the time since then. But his story demanded to be written. I really liked his character in the books - he was _so_ sweet to his sister (and he was awesome in _Really Truly Ruthie_) in spite of all the stuff their family had to deal with. Definitely the kind of big brother I wish my big brother had been more like, instead of stealing my bottles out of my crib when I was a baby.

* * *

Kit dropped into a chair in the darkened kitchen. Her bag fell to the floor unnoticed. She was seriously considering never moving from that spot as long as she lived.

"Mom saved you a plate."

Kit jumped - she'd been so absorbed she hadn't even heard the crutches behind her. "I think I'm too tired to eat," she said glumly.

Charlie crossed into her line of vision with a smile. "I'll heat it up for you," he offered.

"You don't have to do that."

"I'm just returning a favor." Kit watched as Charlie lit the stove, then set her plate over a pot of simmering water, moving deftly now on his crutches. "You look about all in, little sis."

"Gibb called all the War Desk girls in as soon as the news came across the wire," Kit explained. "This is… this is _big_."

"We've been listening to the radio all day," Charlie concurred. "Do you think the war will end now?"

"I don't know," Kit responded. "I hope so. I hate to think that we can use such a terrible weapon and it won't have any effect. I don't think I could stand it if the world were like that."

"I think that's how we all feel now," Charlie agreed. "I think we're all just tired. The whole country looks about like you do, right now."

Kit smiled a wan smile. "Do you know what I don't like about my job?"

"I thought you loved your job," Charlie said, rising to check on Kit's dinner.

"I do," Kit said quickly. "It's exciting being in the newspaper business - it's what I've dreamed of since I was a little kid. But sometimes it's hard to write about it and not have it mean anything."

A confused look crossed Charlie's face. "How do you mean?"

"At first," Kit explained, "it used to bother me when the death tolls came across the wire. Carrier sunk, three hundred dead. Forty-five dead. Two thousand dead. That sort of thing. I couldn't stop thinking of all those boys cut down in their prime of life - boys like you, boys like Roger - and I felt just terrible about it."

"Well, of course you did." Charlie set her plate in front of her. "What happened then?"

"After a while," Kit continued, "I just… stopped."

"Stopped?"

"I stopped thinking about it. Stopped caring. I could write down the most horrible news and come home and sleep soundly at night."

Charlie resumed his seat. "What's so terrible about that?"

"I mean, I didn't even think about it. Husbands, brothers, sons… I just put them out of my mind. I just wrote the numbers down like they were arithmetic problems. I don't want to be that kind of person, Charlie - the kind of person who doesn't care."

Her eyes were wide, and Charlie reached over and actually patted her hand. "You did what you had to do, Squirt," he said quietly. "It's what we all did. You put it out of your mind or you can't even begin to do your job."

Kit took a few silent bites of her dinner. "What was it _really_ like over there?" she said suddenly. The words she'd been dying to speak ever since his return. "It was always just words, to me. Was it very awful?"

Charlie leaned back in his chair, looking in that moment a lot like Dad. "Do you want to know the truth?" he said. Kit nodded. "The truth is… it was actually sort of fun."

Kit wasn't expecting that. "Fun?" She tried to keep the shock out of her voice, for fear he would end the conversation.

"Do you know why I joined the Army?"

"To pay for college, I thought."

"Sure, to pay for college," Charlie agreed. "But it was more than that. After my summer in the CCC, I figured the Army would be more of the same. Make new friends, see the world."

"And it wasn't?"

"It was," Charlie said. "Of course, it was during peacetime. But I lived it up - we all did. Of course, we knew what was going on in Europe, but we were all so sure that Roosevelt would keep us out of it. At the worst, I thought my enlistment would be over before the war began."

"But it wasn't."

"I could have gotten out if I'd wanted to," Charlie explained, "but how would that look for me? The country is marching off to war and I only think of myself. It was my duty."

"You've always been one to do your duty," Kit said, recalling her brother rising early in the morning to load the newspaper trucks. They were so much younger then.

"And of course I'd made sergeant by then," Charlie went on. "Better pay, more responsibility. I liked having all these eighteen-year-old kids looking up to me. I tried to do my best by them. Of course I was hard on them during our training, but even then it was a good time."

"And then you went overseas." Kit could still remember how he looked the last day of his furlough before shipping out: like he was embarking on a great adventure. She'd had a twinge of fear for him, even then.

"And then we went overseas," Charlie repeated. "But even then, it wasn't so bad. Europe is very beautiful - in parts, it reminded me of home. So green, so hilly. Sometimes you could even forget there was a war going on, at least early on."

Kit was afraid to speak, for fear she'd break the spell. The kitchen clock ticked loudly above the stove.

"The first time I killed a man," Charlie said very quietly, "my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I had to keep my gloves on for a whole day so that my men wouldn't see. But do you know what happened? The time after that, it was a little easier, and after that, it was easier still. And before too long I could do my job with a clean conscience. Just like you, Kit. I don't think it's terrible at all."

"I guess," Kit said, "that I didn't have it any worse than you. And I had a nice warm bed and hot food to come home to every night."

"The thing that really bothered me," Charlie went on, "was losing my own men. They looked up to me and I hated to see them killed. There was one - Danny Kettering - he was from Cincinnati too. Just a few miles from us, actually. I told him that if anything happened, I'd take his things home to his mother."

Kit recalled the box she'd carried in on the day Charlie came home. "Oh."

"And do you know the funny thing?" Charlie said, a wry smile twisting his lips. "I can't do it. I could face the German artillery just fine, but one widowed mother has got me shaking in my boots."

"I'll go with you," Kit said suddenly. "Might make it a little more tolerable for you." More than that, she felt she needed a reminder of the human side.

Charlie smiled for real. "I'd like that."

"Were you scared?" Kit asked. "During the shelling, or anything like that?"

"Not really," Charlie said. "I know it sounds strange, but I just put it out of my mind."

"What about when you lost your leg?" Kit blushed. "I mean… maybe I shouldn't mention it, but…"

"It's all right," Charlie said with a return of his easygoing nature. "Honestly, Squirt, it just happened so fast. One minute I'm running, yelling at my men to run for cover; the next minute, I'm waking up in a field hospital and they're telling me my leg is off. I didn't even have time to think about it."

"But you lost your leg," Kit persisted. "I thought - we all thought - when you came home…"

"It's not that bad." Charlie was unrolling his pant leg, and Kit steeled herself so she didn't wince when she saw the ugly scars where his knee used to be. But he was right. It had been so much worse in her imagination; she was glad she had finally seen it.

Still, she remained unconvinced. "You didn't come downstairs for almost a month."

"I was tired," Charlie said. That wasn't really what he meant, but it was the easiest way of explaining it. "I was _so_ tired. But it's better now - honestly, it is. Did you know I went down to the library yesterday?"

"I didn't know that."

Charlie grinned proudly. "Mom was worried, of course. I told her, I'm twenty-seven years old, I think I can handle taking the streetcar by myself."

Kit laughed. "That sounds like Mom."

"But I made it back just fine," Charlie said. "What if the war is over, Kit? What are you going to do?"

"I'll stick around the Register for as long as I can," Kit said, "and after that, I don't know. What about you?"

"I don't know either," Charlie said. "Sometimes I wish things could go back to being the way they were, but I know better."

"You know," Kit mused, "I spent so much of my life wishing for the very same thing. Wishing Dad could get his old job back, find a new job, wishing we didn't have to have boarders or that you hadn't had to join the Army."

"And?"

"And then," Kit went on, "I realized that that was no way to live. I mean, how far back are we supposed to turn the clock? Everything that's happened, there's been some good in it. New experiences, people we've met. I even didn't hate the boarders after a while."

"Did Mother ever tell you," Charlie said, leaning back with a smile, "that I _hated_ you when you were born?"

"She never did."

"See, I'd ruled the roost for six years quite undisputed," Charlie explained. "And you came along, this horrible, tiny little interloper. You couldn't do anything, and everyone fussed over you."

"Sorry." Kit grinned sheepishly. "I'm sure you would have preferred a little brother."

"Or a dog," Charlie agreed. "But, the thing is… after a year or so, I changed my tune."

"What happened?"

"Well, you got a little bigger, and you weren't so helpless anymore. And when you started walking, you wanted to follow me everywhere. You couldn't say 'Charlie' so you called me 'Tar-ee.' And I realized you were way better than any dog could ever be. So, I made the best of it."

"That's what I like best about you," Kit said. "You always make the best of it. Whatever you decide to do after the war is over, I'm sure you'll be great at it." On her way to rinse her dish in the sink, she put an arm around her brother's shoulders from behind.

Charlie returned the embrace. "You, too."


	8. Chapter 8

"Speak up! I can't hear you!"

Kit pressed her finger in the opposite ear and shouted into the telephone receiver to be heard above the din. "I said, you've got to come down here, Charlie! It's the biggest crowd I've ever seen!" Which was true - if she'd thought V-E day was a celebration, V-J day was ten times grander. Now the war was _really_ over. All the boys could come home.

Kit could barely make out her brother's response. "Don't start without me, Squirt!"

By the time Charlie arrived, the party had moved downstairs. The office was eerily quiet - she'd never seen it totally devoid of life, the way it was today - when Kit heard the familiar thump of crutches behind her. "Sorry it took me so long to get down here," Charlie apologized. "The entire population of Cincinnati is packed inside Union Station, and the rest of Ohio is out in the streets. I hope you didn't miss any fun because of me."

"It's all right." Kit stood up from the War News desk - what would they call it now? Would there even _be_ a War News desk? - and faced him. "Oh! You wore your uniform," she added with some surprise.

"It just seemed right," Charlie said quietly. "A way to honor the men I lost."

Tears blurred Kit's eyes, so she distracted herself by brushing an imaginary piece of lint from Charlie's shoulder. "I think you look nice," she said. "And it's a lovely gesture."

Mr. Gibson burst into the office with two bottles of champagne in his hands, and a young woman Kit didn't know draped around his neck. "There you are, Kittredge!" he shouted; Kit suspected he'd been sampling the toasts already. "Everyone's looking for you! Can't have a party without my best War Desk girl! Come downstairs!" Then he noticed Charlie, standing next to Kit with a shy smile on his face, and Gibbs' voice dropped almost to an indoor level. He extended a hand to Charlie. "Glad to see you, son," he said seriously, and then was off again. "Champagne, Kittredge!" Gibbs shouted, and the girl giggled.

Kit laughed. "I guess we'd better go, huh?"

Charlie started off on his crutches. "Have you ever had champagne before, Squirt?"

Kit elbowed her brother in the side - gently, so as not to knock him off balance. "It's _Margaret_."

Charlie laughed. "Oh, you are going to _love_ it."

It really was the most massive party Kit had ever seen. New Year's Eve times a thousand. Spilling out from the newspaper offices, and down the streets in both directions, and as far as the eye can see, were people, shoulder to shoulder, some shouting for joy, some streaming with tears, and a dusting of ticker-tape like snow covered the whole raucous scene. Kit had to fight not to get separated from Charlie, whom she saw being kissed by at least ten different women.

It was well after two in the morning when they finally found seats on a train home - and downtown, the party was still going strong. But Kit, who'd had only two glasses of champagne (okay, two and a _half_) but was somewhat tipsy, knew she still had to report to work in the morning. Charlie leaned his head against the back of the seat; physical and emotional strain showed on his face, but he looked happy, too. "Thanks for calling me, Kit," he said, for once not incurring her wrath by calling her 'Squirt.' "That was really something."

"It'll be something to tell your children and grandchildren about," Kit added quite seriously. "I'll save us a couple of copies of the morning _Register_. I'm sure Mother and Dad will want one too."

"So," Charlie stated, turning towards her, "I could have sworn I saw an old friend of ours downtown."

"Who's that?"

"Stirling Howard."

The train lurched, and Kit's stomach made a similar motion - whether it was the effects of the alcohol or the subject matter, she did not know. "It… it may have been him. He works at a firm downtown, last I heard."

"Well, maybe it wasn't. Did you happen to catch a glimpse?"

Kit looked down at her hands, feeling entirely sober now. "I didn't notice. It may have been him… I didn't see."

"Hey." Charlie gently pulled up her chin, so that she was forced to look at him. "Why am I getting the feeling that's not a name you wanted to hear?"

"He…" Kit began, but as the train rounded a corner, the young woman in the aisle nearly fell into Kit's lap. As she giggled her apology - leading Kit to conclude that _she'd_ had more than two glasses of champagne - Kit made her excuse. "Maybe this isn't the best time to talk about it, huh?"

"I guess not." Charlie slung an arm around his little sister's shoulder, and within a few minutes the rocking of the train - drunken revelers or no drunken revelers - had actually lulled her to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

When Kit came in from work the next afternoon, arms laden with the historic newspapers, Charlie was in the living room wearing a big grin and an air of expectation. "Howdy, Squirt!" he greeted her. "How's your head?"

"A lot better than Mr. Gibson's," Kit answered honestly. "But I'd really love not to listen to any more typewriters for a while." She dropped the newspapers at the bottom of the stairs and started to head up - she wanted to lay down for a little while before dinner.

"Hold it, short stuff," Charlie called after her. "We had a deal, remember?" Kit sighed, and shuffled back down the stairs with resignation. "Have a seat. There you go." His trademark grin faded to a more serious expression as he fired his opening volley. "Stirling Howard."

"Stirling," Kit repeated, holding out her hands. "As you may have guessed, we… we aren't friends anymore."

"Well, what happened?" Charlie asked. "You didn't mention this in any of your letters. You, he, and Ruthie were three peas in a pod, back in the day."

"I ran into him, about a year ago," Kit explained. "See, they moved away the same year you joined the Army, and I didn't really see him much after that. But, last summer he came into the _Register_ with an editorial cartoon that he'd drawn."

"So he did become an artist, then." Charlie looked pleased. "I remember he always liked to draw. I still have a few copies of your _Hard Times News _around here somewhere."

"Yeah, he works for a firm downtown. At least, last I heard, that's what he was doing. They do government contract work - you know the Hitler Chicken?"

"That was Stirling?" Charlie let out a whistle.

"That was him. He was 4-F, so he missed the war, but he wanted to do _something_, you know? Like a lot of us."

"Sure. So he came into the register…" Charlie prompted..

"Right, and at first it was like nothing had changed. But then, of course, I had to tell him about Roger."

"I have to admit, Squirt," Charlie said, ignoring Kit's glare, "that we were all a little surprised at that one. Wasn't Roger a bit of a bully, back in the day?"

"People change, Charlie," Kit insisted. "_You_ know they do. Roger even wrote Stirling a letter - I don't know exactly what it said, but I gathered that it was an apology of sorts."

"And was that good enough for Stirling?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," Kit declared. "Stirling Howard's not the boss of my love life."

"So, you two had a fight," Charlie deduced. "About Roger."

"Not then and there," Kit admitted. "We sort of settled into an uneasy truce on that subject. But, I'd see him about once a week - strictly as an old-friends-catching-up sort of thing, mind you. As long as he didn't mention Roger, or his disbelief that I was actually going to marry Mr. Turkeypants -"

A confused look crossed Charlie's face. "Turkeypants?"

Kit had forgotten that the three of them had vowed to keep the Thanksgiving incident silent. Oh well, not that it mattered now. "An old nickname of Stirling's. For Roger, I mean. As long as he didn't mention _Roger_, I liked being around him."

"And you loved him?"

"Stirling?"

"Roger," Charlie corrected. "You know, in all your letters, you didn't have very much to say on that subject."

"I _did_ love him," Kit insisted. "I did. I won't deny that."

"But?" Charlie prompted.

"But…" Kit considered this point. "I think that my agreement to marry him was somewhat motivated by patriotic zeal. He _did_ look awfully good in his uniform. I don't think I had given much thought to what would happen after the war."

"So, where does Stirling Howard fit into all of this?" Charlie went on. "What could he have done that would make you go pale as a sheet when I mentioned his name last night?"

"It was when I got the telegram," Kit said quietly. "About Roger."

"Right." It was on Charlie's lips to say _I'm sorry_, but as per their agreement, he refrained.

"Someone telephoned Stirling - it was probably Mother, now that I think about it," Kit mused. "And he came to offer his regrets. Not right away - maybe a week later. I'd finally stopped crying by the time he came around, although I'm sure I looked a fright."

"And Stirling… insulted you horribly by giving you his condolences?"

"It wasn't so much _what_ he said, it was _how_ he said it. Almost like he wasn't sorry at all. Almost like he was thinking, _Now that Turkeypants is out of my way I can take my chance_."

"But he didn't say any of this, did he?" Charlie pressed. "Have you thought that maybe your perception of that day may be a little… off? Grief makes us do strange things, sometimes."

"But, Charlie," Kit defended herself, "I've known Stirling Howard for a long time. And I could tell what he was thinking."

"Which was what?"

"That he was in love with me."

Charlie's eyes widened in mock horror. "That _is_ serious."

"Charlie, don't make fun."

"I'm sorry, Kit, truly I am. Maybe there's something I'm not seeing. What if he _was_ in love with you? What's so terrible about that?"

"Well," Kit faltered, "the timing was terrible."

"Why's that?" Charlie continued. "He didn't try to kiss you, did he?"

"Of course not," Kit responded promptly. "I'd have socked him in the nose if he did."

"You would, too," Charlie grinned. "So, Stirling Howard committed the unpardonable sin of falling in love with Kit - _Margaret_ Kittredge. Maybe. Only he didn't do anything to show it."

"I don't know for _sure_," Kit realized. "But I suspected. And, well… we quarreled. And I told him I never wanted to see him again.."

"Ouch." Charlie cringed. "You didn't."

"I did," Kit said miserably. "And maybe I didn't mean it, but I can't go back on it now. Sure, I miss our friendship, but… but it never would have been the same, anyway. I would have always been wondering."

"And what if he was? What if he _did_ love you?"

"I wanted him as a friend, not a lover."

"But that's hardly Stirling's fault, is it?"

"You think it's ridiculous, don't you?"

"Not at all, kid sister. Look," he said. "Maybe I'm not qualified to give love advice -"

"As if that would stop you," Kit teased.

"Har." Charlie smirked. "The thing is, opportunities for love don't come along every day. All I know is, _I_ wouldn't turn down the chance if I got it."


	10. Chapter 10

**author's note**. Sorry, short chapter! Lots of exposition needs to be done here. Plenty of important bits to cover!

* * *

"Well, Gibb, I guess this is goodbye."

Mr. Gibson looked at her strangely. "You're leaving the Register?"

Kit smiled. "I don't have much choice, do I? No more war means no more War Desk."

In his brusque manner, he was almost affectionate. "_You_, Kittredge, can stick around as long as you want."

* * *

"Look at it," Kit breathed, home from her day at the Sports Desk. "It's a thing of beauty."

"Isn't it just?" Charlie agreed. "Picked it up today at the Veteran's Hospital." He held his new leg almost reverently in his hands.

"It's all shiny," Kit added.

"I'm sure it won't be for long," Charlie said. "I intend to put it to good use."

"I think this calls for cake," Mother said, and departed for the kitchen. She always felt better when she was baking something - especially now that the rationing was over.

"Why don't you put it on?" Kit suggested. "No, wait." Already an idea was forming in her mind. "Let me go get my camera."

* * *

"Ruthie Smithens." Kit greeted her old friend warmly. It was true that they weren't as close as they had once been, but she was always glad to see her.

"Ruth Farmer," Ruthie corrected. Marriage certainly seemed to agree with Ruthie - her eyes glowed like jewels above the fur collar of her coat. "It's so good to see you again."

"What are you doing in town, anyway?"

"We're just passing through on our way to California. Doug is starting a new job in Los Angeles," she explained. "But we wanted to spend Christmas with Mother and Dad before we depart for the land of perpetual sunshine. And wanted to catch up with old friends."

"Well, here I am," Kit said happily. "Won't you come sit down? There's cake."

"So, how is everyone?" Ruthie asked a few minutes later, sipping a cup of coffee. "Are your parents still keeping boarders?"

"They've finally cleared all out," Kit said. "After all these years, Mother doesn't quite know what to do with herself. But I think it was wearing her down, at the end. And Dad's gone into business with an old friend of his. Now that the manufacturers are building cars again, they're starting a dealership."

"Oh, that's great! And how's Charlie doing?"

"He's still working out the kinks with the new leg, but I've never seen him happier. He's playing piano at a jazz club downtown. Mr. Peck - one of our old boarders - got him the job. And he's seeing a girl named Doreen - she's a singer at the club. She's lovely."

"Good for him." Ruthie set down her coffee cup. "I saw that you're still with the newspaper."

"Yes, I'm covering sports, and I write the occasional interest piece."

"We read your series on the wounded veterans. It made me cry," Ruthie admitted. "And Doug said you're one of the few that's gotten it right."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Anyway, I can't stay long. I've got to go see Stirling."

"Oh?" Kit replied coolly. "He's still in town?"

Ruthie looked at her gently, almost pityingly. "You haven't heard, then?" What she said next made Kit feel as though she had been socked in the gut. "Mrs. Howard wrote to me. Kit, honey… he's dying."


	11. Chapter 11

**author's note. **Okay, this is a late-breaking addition to the story. I was fully intending to finish revising the next chapter to get it ready for posting, but I started thinking about Stirling this afternoon, and wondered what he was doing when he was offscreen (especially after Kit told him off like that). Before I knew it, I was sitting down at my computer and this came out. Hey, if Almanzo Wilder got an entire _Farmer Boy_ to himself, the least Stirling deserves is a chapter all for his very own. Sorry it's a little choppy and disjointed but we've got a lot of ground to cover. Enjoy!

* * *

"Stirling Howard," Kit said, eyes burning in her white face, "I never want to see you again."

An apology sprang to Stirling's lips and died there. He could tell that there'd be no reasoning with her in her current state. "I see," he mumbled, going for his hat. "I'll let myself out." In the next instant he was gone. Out of respect for the Howard family, he refrained from slamming the door.

Stirling allowed himself one day, and only one, to wallow in self-pity. He called in sick to work and locked himself in his rented room. And when it was over, he squared his shoulders, splashed cold water on his face, and went out again to face the world.

* * *

Although the war-propaganda business paid well, Stirling lived cheaply. His rented room was shabby and waterstained, but it possessed the dual advantages of cheapness and being close to work, saving on streetcar fare. He prepared his bachelor meals on a hotplate, or ate grilled cheese or scrambled eggs at a lunch counter. His shabby clothes didn't really stand out in 1945, and besides, as an artist he was expected to be eccentric. He put as much of his earnings as he could - what was left after buying sketchpads and charcoal pencils and War Bonds - into a savings account. Although his mother was handling herself well at the moment, when she grew old, he knew, it would be his responsibility to care for her.

On Saturdays he went to the library, lugging home great leather-bound volumes of art, or he'd sit in the park and draw when it was fine, or he'd go down to Union Terminal and sketch the WPA murals. Every Sunday he paid the train fare to spend the day with his mother, who was keeping house for a wealthy old woman outside of town. Louise Howard had to make do with seeing her only son one day out of seven, and she always made the most of it. Usually, she'd even send him home with a bundle of food. She didn't trust his cooking.

Stirling wrote dozens of letters to Kit, wrote until his arm ached, begging her forgiveness. One day in July, with a firm set to his lips, he dropped the entire bundle in the incinerator. Sometimes he'd see a girl on the street or on the train who reminded him of her. In fact, it happened often enough that he began to make a study of it. He started a sketchpad with comparisons so that he could analyze just what the difference was. Maybe it was the freckles, the exact angle at which she wore her hat. She wasn't the most beautiful girl in the world, he decided - there were plenty of girls who could vie for that title - but she was definitely the most interesting to look at.

It wasn't that Stirling didn't notice other girls. Although he considered himself far too skinny to be attractive, there were plenty of young women in his office who wouldn't have minded the chance to fatten him up. And after Carole Miller spent enough time lingering around his desk, he finally asked her to the movies. They went to a double feature; he duly held her hand; they went out a few more times. But the spark just wasn't there. Stirling knew it, and he knew that Carole knew it. Not that she wasn't a lovely girl, but he was relieved when she started going with George Reinhart from downstairs.

* * *

V-J Day, and downtown Cincinnati exploded with celebration. Stirling joined his office mates down on the street; there was crying, and kissing, and ticker-tape. And then he saw someone he thought he knew. The uniformed figure on crutches turned slightly, and Stirling saw that it was indeed Charlie Kittredge. A smile crossed Stirling's face; he'd always liked Charlie, considering him sort of a surrogate older brother during the years he lived at the Kittredges'. Stirling prepared to make his way through the crowd to speak to his old friend, but before he could, Charlie turned and addressed the girl at his side. _Kit_.

Stirling turned away before he could be spotted. The party was quite ruined for him after that; he pushed his way through the crowds and back to the deserted office, where he worked at his desk far into the night.

* * *

Stirling caught his usual cold that October. He'd sneezed and snuffled his way through every fall and winter since he was a kid, and he didn't expect this year to be any different. He hated to admit it, but his mother was right about him. Stirling cursed his weakness - he was sure that Roger Fulton had been a perfect specimen of fine physical health.

There was still plenty of work to do, even though the war was over. And Stirling was stubborn. He kept on going to work each day, visiting his mother on Sundays, just like he had always done. He kept thinking now that the war had ended he should be happy, and he _would_ be, if he could just shake off that cold.

* * *

Stirling awoke that morning feeling even worse than usual. His ribs ached from coughing, his head was pounding, and his entire body was sore. He considered begging off work that day; but then he had a sudden vision of keeling over dead in his rented room, leaving his landlady the unpleasant task of disposing of him. And she was a sweet lady, so that wouldn't do. So he fortified himself with bad coffee, buttoned his threadbare coat against the wind, and walked the six blocks to the office.

There was so much to be done, proofs that needed approval, sketches and contracts; by mid-morning Stirling was questioning whether he'd made the right decision, after all. He was so tired, deep in his bones, wishing he could hibernate like bears did. _I'll just put my head down on my desk for a few minutes_…

"Hey, Howard!" Ben Matthews hissed in a whisper. "Look sharp, boss man is coming!" When Stirling didn't respond, Ben crumpled a sheet of paper into a ball and fired it across the aisle. "Howard!" Still no response from Stirling. Concerned now, Ben rose. "Hey Stirling, are you okay?" Alarm stirred the other man's voice when he couldn't rouse his friend. "Jane! Call a doctor!"

* * *

Stirling opened fever-bright eyes to an unfamiliar face. "Son?" the older man said. Judging by his white coat and concerned expression, he was a doctor. "Son, can you tell me your name?"

They had him laid out on the wooden bench in the hallway; his collar was loosened and his face was damp. The anxious faces of his co-workers floated in and out of view. Stirling scrunched up his brows in concentration. He _really_ wasn't in the mood to be answering questions; all he wanted was to sleep for the next ten or twenty years. "I…" A fit of coughing took the rest of his answer.

The secretary sounded far away, like a dangling telephone receiver. "His name's Stirling," she was saying. "Stirling Howard. Is he going to be okay?"

The doctor whispered something to Jane, then turned back to Stirling. "Just hang in there, son." Stirling wanted to say, _I'm not your son! Stop calling me that!_ But the words wouldn't even form in his brain, let alone make it to his lips. "We're going to get you taken care of, all right? Is there anyone you need me to call?"

Stirling had to work so hard to string together the sentence that tears of frustration gathered in his eyes. It didn't help that the only face he could picture at that moment did not match the name he was trying to say. "My mother," he managed, before slipping over the edge.

* * *

He came to the surface occasionally, like a drowning man. One evening he opened his eyes to the sight of his mother; she had been talking to a nurse but froze in mid-sentence when she felt his gaze on her.

"Stirling? Honey?" Mrs. Howard's smile was quivery and mixed with tears. "Oh, Stirling."

Stirling parted cracked lips to speak. So many thoughts were competing for his attention. _How long have I been like this? How is it that I haven't died? __**Am**__ I going to die? Does Kit know that I'm dying? Where **is** Kit, anyway? _All the things he wanted to say made it impossible to decide, and in the end he decided it wasn't worth it. With a sigh, he shut his mouth and closed his eyes; the last thing he heard as he sank into oblivion was his mother's sobs.

* * *

The time allotted for visitors was precise: between four and five o'clock, on the dot. An extra hour on Sundays. His mother was there every minute of it, taking a train and two streetcars from the house she cleaned at the edge of town. For a born worrier, the situation came naturally to Mrs. Howard. She'd hold his hand, whether he knew it or not, and read him the newspapers (carefully omitting the sports page), and cry a little if the mood struck her. He had other visitors, too. He was well-liked at work; he had friends from school; even his widowed landlady was inordinately fond of him. Never, of course, the person he _really_ wanted to see. Other times, he'd awaken at night, when the hospital ward was relatively quiet and dark, and search out the one window visible from behind the partition. He watched the moon wax and wane again, and wondered when he was going to be well again. And if it really mattered.

Stirling's fever dreams were vivid; the line between imagination and reality was blurred in those days and long nights. Once Kit came to see him, looking as cool and lovely as she had that first day at the _Register. _The conversation began with an apology, and ended with a kiss.

When Stirling awoke, his pillow was wet with tears, and he couldn't quite explain why.

* * *

"Thank you," Stirling croaked, some time later. He still couldn't make it more than two or three words without getting winded; luckily, his mother was a patient woman.

"Thank you for what, dear?" Mrs. Howard said, looking as if she wanted to add 'lamby' to the end of every sentence.

"Staying with me," he said. "It's nice… not being alone… all the time."

"I'd be here more," Mrs. Howard explained, "but the doctor says I mustn't wear you out."

Stirling actually grinned a tiny bit. "Smart man."

"Is there anyone you'd like me to write to? That Kittredge girl, for example?" Mrs. Howard couldn't conceal a frown.

A shadow crossed Stirling's face. "Not Kit," he said quickly. Then he thought for a few minutes. "Ruthie."

* * *

"There's a Mrs. Farmer here to see you," the nurse said.

Stirling's confused expression resolved into recognition when Ruthie appeared. "Well, hello!" he beamed. "So kind of you to come."

Ruthie kissed Mrs. Howard on the cheek and gave Stirling's hand a squeeze. "I just had to, since I was in town."

Mrs. Howard gathered her hat and coat. "I'll give you two some time to catch up," she said.

Ruthie settled into the chair. "So," she said comfortably, "you're looking well."

"Liar," Stirling grinned.

"I was raised to believe," Ruthie said coolly, "that one should always lie to a sick person." She returned his grin. "But you do look a lot better than I thought you would."

"Thanks anyway. A kind lie is always appreciated," Stirling said. "But you're the one who's looking well, these days. Your husband is a lucky man," he added, with admiration and not a trace of envy.

Ruthie blushed attractively. "Stop it."

"So, tell me about him? I've done a terrible job of keeping in touch."

"We met in Boston," Ruthie said. "He was wounded in Belgium. We met at a USO dance and were married just six weeks later. Mother and Dad were furious, of course. But they've come around to it - they love Doug. Everyone does. We're heading out to California soon but I'll bring him around so you can meet him."

"I'd like that."

"So, I suppose you know who I visited yesterday."

It was hard for him even to speak her name. "Kit."

"Maybe it's none of my business," Ruthie said. "But I'm claiming my right as a very old friend. What happened between you two?"

Stirling could tell there would be no lying to Ruthie. In as few sentences as possible, he sketched out the whole sad story. "I'm pretty sure she hates me now," he finished, "not that I can blame her."

Ruthie peered at him. "And you… don't hate her at all, do you?"

Stirling flushed. "I guess I'm pretty transparent, huh?"

"It's just that I've seen this coming since we were kids," Ruthie explained.

"Oh." Stirling considered this, biting his lips. "Ruthie, I gave up on that a long time ago."

"Well," Ruthie said with a knowing air, "if she doesn't come today then she'll definitely be here tomorrow." A smile curved on her lips. "So, you might want to shave_._"

* * *

Two thoughts occupied Stirling Howard's brain the rest of that day and the next: _She'll come. She isn't going to come_. He wondered what Ruthie (who insisted that she was called Ruth now, much like Kit had become Margaret) had actually told Kit that would be so persuasive. It had been almost a year since he'd seen her, not counting V-J Day, but she'd always been at the back of his mind. Now she was at the forefront of his thoughts again and he found he couldn't concentrate on anything else. He was practically vibrating with anticipation. The sleepless night hadn't helped his looks any, but he shaved carefully that morning and combed his hair until he was satisfied with his appearance. The few bites of food he managed to swallow sat uneasily in his stomach.

Mrs. Howard arrived promptly at four o'clock and took up her usual post. She knew something was up, Stirling could tell, but he wasn't about to volunteer any information. From his mother's comments, he'd gleaned that she didn't exactly have the highest opinion of Margaret Mildred Kittredge at the moment. She'd brought him a _Life_ magazine - he'd been begging for art journals but she refused to allow her son to strain himself - and he gave its pages a cursory glance, surreptitiously watching the clock out of the corner of his eye.

At 4:19 he heard the click of the door and he tried to remain casual, turning the pages of the magazine with trembling fingers. His bed was at the end of a long ward and as the visitor walked past, he could hear the murmurs of the other patients' voices cease. Stirling only knew of one woman who had that effect on men. The footsteps - practical shoes, not heels - stopped just short of the curtain at his bedside and he envisioned her stopping to compose herself. Not checking her appearance - Kit wasn't that kind of girl - but gathering her wits. This was obviously a habit of adulthood as Stirling quite vividly recalled his first memory of Kit - bursting through the door of his sickroom with Ernie Lombardi in her hand, crashing into his mother and knocking her tray to the floor.

Stirling held his breath.

Time didn't stop, but it definitely slowed down. As she rounded the curtain, a rare sunbeam from the window illuminated her golden hair. Her face was drawn and anxious, but Stirling Howard had never seen anything so beautiful in all of his twenty-three years. They stared at each other for a few moments until Stirling broke the silence. There were so many things he wanted to say to her that he figured he ought to begin with a greeting, at least. "Hello, you."

The smile that broke over her face was the dawning of a new day. "Hi, Stirling."


	12. Chapter 12

"I'm not dying," Stirling said cheerfully, although his pallor and his wracking cough contradicted the assertion. "Mother's prone to exaggeration."

The past thirty-six hours since Ruthie's visit had been an exquisite form of torture for Kit. Ruthie had her read Mrs. Howard's letter, describing how Stirling had hidden his illness for weeks, until a co-worker had found him slumped at his desk as if lifeless. How the doctor at City General had shaken his head when explaining how desperate the case had become. Kit had gone to work and home again, numbly, picked at her dinner, and dully phoned the hospital to inquire about visiting hours. She'd put on the deception that she was merely concerned for the well-being of a casual friend; although, of course, no one who knew her intimately was fooled. Over and over she'd pleaded with herself, _Don't let it be true. Please don't let it be true_. She'd rehearsed, over and over, the words she would say - Kit was prepared to make any apology necessary, if only it would alter the situation somehow. And she'd steeled herself on the streetcar ride over, stomach in knots and hands twisting, preparing herself for what she might find.

She hadn't expected almost the first words out of his mouth to be a denial of his condition. But then again, when Kit thought about it, this made perfect sense for Stirling.

"Are you all right, dear?" Mrs. Howard fussed - refraining, to her credit, from calling him 'lamby.' "Do you need me to get a nurse?"

"It's okay, Mother," he said to her. "Look, why don't you go for a walk or something? Get some air."

"I don't like to leave," Mrs. Howard argued, "I see you so little as it is and who knows..."

"Mother." Stirling cut her off before she could finish her sentence. "Kit's an old friend. And you know her mother. Just a few minutes, please? I promise she'll call for the doctor if anything goes south before time is up."

Under protest, Mrs. Howard finally left, and Kit took her place in the vacated chair. Then, but for the din of the busy hospital, they were alone.

"So." A thin smile crossed Stirling's pale lips. "You came."

"Ruthie told me."

"Yes, Mother wrote her. She visited yesterday - she's looking well, isn't she?"

"She is," Kit agreed. "Marriage agrees with her. And it was lovely seeing her again. What I don't understand is why I had to hear this news from her."

"Mother wanted to write you. I… I told her not to."

"Why on earth not?"

"You told me," Stirling said matter-of-factly, "that you never wanted to see me again. You were quite clear about that."

"And you would have… _died_… without letting me know? Just to prove a point?"

"I told you, I'm not dying. I just got run down, is all."

"So if you really thought you were going to die, you would have written me yourself."

"Maybe," Stirling conceded, "but we'll never really know, will we?"

"Look," Kit said, taking off her hat and holding it between her hands. "I owe you an apology. Maybe I was more harsh that day than I needed to be."

"I don't hold you responsible in the least," Stirling said quickly. "You'd just lost someone you loved."

"I was so angry," Kit recalled. "And it wasn't just about Roger. I had this crazy idea - it's so funny to me, now - this ridiculous notion that you were in love with me, somehow." She laughed half-heartedly.

Stirling chuckled, not denying a thing. "No wonder you were so upset with me," he realized. "That certainly doesn't look good for me, does it? Swooping in to take my chance now that Turkeypants is out of the way."

To her credit, Kit actually smiled at Stirling's use of the old nickname. "I _did_ love him, you know."

He felt as if the words would kill him, but they didn't. "I know."

Kit wasn't dwelling on Roger. "So, that's that."

"Kit, I need to apologize too. I am so, so sorry," Stirling said, his gray eyes sincere. "I provoked you, and that wasn't right. I should have been more sensitive to what you were feeling."

"I've regretted what I said to you - a thousand times over," Kit said. "There were so many times I wished I could have taken it back."

"Then why didn't you?" Stirling asked her quietly.

"Stubbornness," Kit admitted sheepishly. "You know me. That, and sheer foolish pride. The kind that goeth before destruction, as Aunt Millie would say."

"Shakespeare?"

"I think it's from the Bible," Kit said. "_Everything_ is either from Shakespeare or the Bible."

"Remember selling eggs door-to-door with me?" Stirling recalled suddenly. "I think you wished the earth would open up and swallow you."

"Whereas you," Kit continued, her face suddenly alight, "were the best egg salesman I've ever seen. I think you may have missed your calling in life, Stirling Howard."

Stirling's chuckle turned to a laugh, which turned to a cough. "Sorry," Kit said quickly.

"Don't be," Stirling said, when his coughing jag was over. "I could use a good laugh."

"What you told your mother, is it true?" Kit pressed. "Are we friends again?"

Stirling's gray eyes stretched wide in mock innocence. "I couldn't lie to my _mother_." He leaned back against the thin pillow with a contented sigh. "Of course we're friends again," he said. "And boy, are you a sight for sore eyes. How've you been, anyway? Keeping busy?"

"Oh, this and that," Kit demurred. "I'm still with the paper, you know."

"I know," Stirling grinned. "I read the _Register_ just like everyone else. I always look for your name."

"I have to admit, it gives me a little thrill of pride to see 'Margaret Kittredge' in the byline. Even after all this time, I still get a little excited." Kit blushed. "Isn't that silly?"

"It's not silly at all," Stirling replied easily. "You have every right to be proud of yourself."

"Well, I always liked seeing the Hitler Chicken on posters and things," Kit continued. "I'd always think, _My friend Stirling drew that. I always knew he'd grow up to be somebody_."

"We both did," Stirling countered. "Although I'm not sure how I'm going to follow up the Hitler Chicken, now that the war is over. It may be my one and only claim to fame." He grinned. "Hey, I read about Charlie. I'm glad he made it home from the war."

"Me too," Kit smiled. "You saw my series?"

"I did. Do you know what I thought when I read it?"

"What's that?"

"I thought, _This is the story Kit Kittredge was born to write_."

"Stop it," Kit scoffed, "or I'll get a swelled head."

"Well," Stirling said, casting regretful eyes at the clock on the wall, "time's almost up. Any minute now Mother will be appearing from the other side of the curtain. But -" He drew a deep breath. "Thank you for coming, Kit."

The way he said it made it seem to Kit like she had done much more for him than she had for herself. "You're welcome," she said warmly.

"I'll admit," Stirling said, gesturing around at the hospital environment, "I'm not in much of a position to make demands. But, will you come and see me every so often? If you're not too busy at the paper."

"I'll make time." Kit smiled. "For an old friend. Do you need anything?"

"I'd be the happiest man alive if I could just get my hands on a sketchpad and some pencils," Stirling begged. "I haven't drawn anything in weeks and _weeks_ and I'm starting to think I'm going to forget how. Only you'll have to sneak them past Mother - can you do that?"

"I sure can," Kit said calmly. "I'll just ask one thing of you in return."

"What's that?"

There was a little gleam in Kit's eyes. "Promise me you won't die."

"Cross my heart," said Stirling, and meant it.


	13. Chapter 13

Kit didn't visit _every_ day, which would have been excessive. But she made it over to City General every few days while Stirling slowly regained his strength. She carefully filed away the mental image of the way his face lit up when she handed him a newspaper with a sketchpad and a box of pencils folded inside. With a conspiratorial wink, Stirling hid the contraband items under his pillow and the next time she came, he showed her the sketches he had done. The doctors, the nurses, his mother, the view of the city buildings out of the tiny scrap of window.

He'd filled several pages with studies of Kit, but _those _he kept under the pillow.

Mrs. Howard made no secret of her disapproval, of course, and often refused even to vacate her seat, leaving Kit to stand - but she didn't mind. And to an uninterested observer, her visits were doing more harm than good. The nurses remarked on Stirling's improved color and the beautiful appetite he'd suddenly developed as if it were mere coincidence. Although he'd quite cheerfully deny otherwise to anyone who would listen, Stirling _had _been rather ill, and his stay lasted well into January. Of course Kit's absences did not escape the notice of the Kittredge household. One night, while the were doing the washing up after supper, Mrs. Kittredge finally spoke up.

"I couldn't help but notice, dear," she began gently, "that you've been spending a lot of time over at City General."

Kit blushed, tellingly. "Sorry," she said. "I'll try and help out more around here. I didn't mean to shirk."

"No, that's not it," Mother said. "I just don't know if it's right to be spending so much time in a young man's company."

"Mother!" Kit splashed angrily in the dishwater. "Stirling's an old friend - a _very_ old friend. One who's practically flat on his back at the moment. I don't need you to look out for my virtue."

"It's not your virtue I'm concerned about," Mother explained. "I think you may be…_inadvertently_… sending the wrong message."

"I don't care what anyone thinks," Kit muttered.

"I'm not talking about _people_," Mother said, "I'm talking about _Stirling_. Presumably he has the same type of feelings as any young man."

"You don't mean…" Kit shook her head. "No. We've been over that already, and it's not going to happen again."

"Are you sure?" Mother pressed. One-sided as her observation had been, she wasn't oblivious to matters of the heart.

Kit was silent for a long time. "Do you think I should stop seeing him?" she said finally.

"I think," Mother said quite seriously, "that you ought to tread carefully."

* * *

A few weeks later, on the first day that really felt like spring, Kit came home to find a lanky young man folded in one of her mother's living room chairs, a plate of cake balanced on his knee. "Oh! Hi, Stirling."

"Hello, Kit," he said, rising with a smile.

"I've got chores to do," Mrs. Kittredge said, leaving with a conspiratorial look at Stirling that didn't escape Kit's notice. "Give my love to your mother."

"Your mother's trying to fatten me up," Stirling said, gesturing with embarrassment at the plate of cake.

"She's been on a baking spree ever since the war ended," Kit explained. "Don't take it personally. _I_ think you're looking well."

"Thanks," Stirling replied, resuming his seat. "Haven't seen you for a while. Old Gibson keeping you busy?"

"This and that," Kit demurred. "But, you could hardly expect to be indulged like that once you were healthy again."

"That's fair," Stirling conceded. "Here, I brought you something." He handed her a portfolio wrapped with string. "They're a little rough, but…"

Kit opened the folder and fanned out several pages of sketches over her knees. "What's this…" Realization dawned on her face. "Ruthie's princess story!"

"I illustrated it," Stirling said, a little embarrassed at her delight. "I've wanted to do it for a long time, only I was always too busy."

"So there's that advantage," Kit said laughingly, "of being laid up for weeks and weeks."

Stirling grinned. Illness had left its traces on his face, but the smile helped a lot. "I'm so glad you like it, Kit," he said.

"_Margaret_."

"I wanted to do something for you, to show my appreciation. You've been so kind to me while I was ill - the newspapers and the pencils and everything."

Kit looked up, suddenly stricken. "Why does that sound like a farewell?"

Stirling shifted uncomfortably. "I'm thinking about going to Chicago," he said.

"And do what?" Kit demanded.

"Work for an ad agency," he replied calmly. "Drawing matchbook covers. There's a lot of money to be made. I've lived under the specter of poverty for so long, I have a hard time turning down the opportunity."

"I know what that's like," Kit agreed. "You've definitely decided to go?"

"Not quite. I feel a responsibility towards Mother - I can't say for sure until we've figured out what she is going to do. I'm all she has left, you know," he said quite matter-of-factly. The truth was that Stirling had often resented the burden that had been placed on his young shoulders but he was far too kind a son to say so.

"Ah." Kit looked down at the drawings in her hands, feeling unaccountably disappointed. Something was wrong, and she couldn't quite work out what it was. "Your mother."

"And, well…" Stirling was as bashful as a boy again. "It's hard to know what to say. To you. I always feel like I'm about to put my foot in my mouth."

"We'll still be friends, of course," Kit replied calmly. "I'll write you if you give me the address."

"I don't think I can do that."

"Would you rather I _didn't_ write?"

"Of course not." Stirling rose, and began pacing the floor. "The past year - when I thought you hated me - I couldn't go through that again."

"Then what on earth are you getting at?"

"Not seeing you was torture. But the thing is, Kit - being your friend, that's a kind of torture too."

Kit sprang from her chair. "Stirling Howard, that's a _horrible_ thing to say!"

"I know." Stirling laughed ruefully, and raked frantic hands through his hair. "See, I knew I'd say the wrong thing. I always do, with you, don't I?"

They were standing very close now, and Kit breathed in his scent - shaving soap and pencils. "And why do you think that is?" she inquired.

"I think it's fate," he said. "You and I - for better or for worse, our lives seem to be inextricably linked, don't they? I've thought that ever since we were kids."

"Then why on earth is it so hard for you to be friends with me?"

"Kit, will you forgive me?"

"Forgive you?" Kit was stricken. "For what?"

"For what I'm about to say."

"Well, have it out already," Kit said irritably. "Don't leave me in suspense."

"Haven't you guessed yet? Kit Kittredge," Stirling said tenderly, "I'm in love with you."

She could have fainted from relief. "Oh, is _that_ all," Kit said with a shaky laugh, and allowed herself to be kissed.

* * *

"Before I answer your question, Stirling Howard, I have one of my own."

"What is it?"

"Stop kissing me and let me speak," Kit laughed. "When did you know?"

Stirling didn't even need to think about it. "That day I walked into the _Register_ and saw you," he said. "You were wearing a yellow blouse; when you looked up at me and smiled, I was a goner."

"I'll accept that," Kit replied calmly.

"And _your_ answer," Stirling pressed, "to _my _question?"

Kit replied without hesitation. "As if there was any question," she scoffed. "Of _course_ I will."


	14. Chapter 14

It seemed to Kit that they'd picked the hottest possible day of 1947 to do the tomatoes. _Isn't that always how it goes_, she thought crankily. Still, she wasn't having an entirely miserable time, and the electric fans humming merrily away were doing their best to dispel the oppressive heat.

"Come on, girls! Waste not, want not!" Aunt Millie urged, her enthusiasm undimmed by age or the heat. She'd come to town for Charlie and Doreen's wedding, and then decided to stay for a month, and finally moved in permanently. Dad worried about her living all on her own, and though she'd never admit she was growing older, she _did_ move more slowly. And Mother was always happy to have an extra pair of hands around the house. Why, today was practically a family reunion in the kitchen, with all of the women bedecked in aprons in the sweltering kitchen, and Charlie in the next room, banging away at the piano for their entertainment.

"Come outside with me," Doreen whispered in Kit's ear. "I'm _perishing_ for a cold Coke."

"We'd better get out of here before she starts quoting Macbeth," Kit agreed. The girls slipped outside with cool glass bottles from the icebox.

"She's practically a museum piece," Doreen declared with obvious affection. Kit loved her sister-in-law, who despite her fashionable ways was game for just about anything. Today her carefully permed hair was bedraggled and she'd eaten off all of her lipstick, but her eyes were laughing. "Cheers," Doreen said as they sat down together on the stoop, clinking the neck of her bottle against Kit's. "I had no idea tomatoes were so much work. Can't you just go to the supermarket and pick up a can?"

"It's worth it," Kit defended. "Wait until winter - it's like they're fresh from the garden. You can't get _that _from a can."

"I sure hope so."

"If you had known that canning tomatoes in the heat of summer with Shakespeare-quoting relatives was part and parcel of marrying Charlie," Kit inquired, "would you have done it anyway?"

"Absolutely." Doreen leaned back and closed her eyes in the summer sunshine. Suddenly she opened them again and looked at Kit. "Hey, kiddo," she said. "So, your brother and I are thinking about taking the show on the road."

"Oh, yeah?" Kit perked up. "What did you have in mind?"

"You know, there's great jazz clubs in St. Louis," Doreen explained. "Bob Peck can get us in. Maybe even New York." Kit whistled. "Just for a year or so, and then it's time to settle down and start having babies."

"I think it's a great idea," Kit said. "Be sure and send lots of postcards, won't you?"

"Sure thing." Doreen laughed. "You know, I grew up on a tobacco farm outside of Portsmouth. The most exciting event in our lives was the '37 flood. I think I'd like to see the world a little bit."

"I don't blame you," Kit said, "and now's a good time to do it."

"We've even got a name for the act," Doreen continued. "We're calling ourselves C and D."

"'C and D,'" Kit repeated. "I like it. Rolls right off the tongue."

"So anyway," Doreen said, "I just wanted to thank you."

"Thank _me_?" Kit was puzzled. "What on earth for?"

"For, well, pushing Charlie out the door after he got home." Doreen was suddenly emotional. "I'm just crazy about your brother."

"I'd noticed," Kit said dryly, but she was a little embarrassed. "I really didn't do anything."

"Charlie told me about the baseball game," Doreen said slyly, watching Kit squirm. "What I wouldn't give for a photograph of your oh-so-fashionable ensemble."

"He _told_ you about that?" Kit squealed, red-faced. "I'll kill him. I'll take that leg off and beat him with it."

Doreen laughed triumphantly. "You're really something."

"Oh well," Kit said with a sigh, "I guess I did what had to be done. And I'm glad I did, even if I'll never live it down."

"Mm." Doreen held the sweating glass bottle against her face. "Hey, look!"

A cab was coming down the street, and the girls rose in anticipation as it pulled into the Kittredges' driveway. A hatless young man sprang from the back seat, crossed the lawn, and without a word swung Kit's entire body in the air in the most animated of embraces.

"Heavens," said Kit when she'd regained her footing, feeling very Aunt-Millie-like. "What on _earth_ is going on?"

"It's here!" Stirling exclaimed. "The advance copies were delivered to my office." He held up a finger. "Wait here."

"Well, where do you think I'm going to go?" Kit shared an eye roll with Doreen as Stirling retrieved a brown paper parcel from the cab. "Wait, you haven't opened it yet?"

"I thought we should do it together," Stirling said with a grin. His fingers were trembling so much, he couldn't get the string unknotted it and finally resorted to tearing at it with his teeth. All three of them gasped in astonishment when the contents were finally revealed.

"'The Disappointed Princess' by Margaret Howard," Kit read aloud. "See? _They_ managed to get my name right. Illustrated by Stirling Howard."

Doreen peeked. "Oh, you two, it's beautiful! Let me go and get Charlie and everyone - they'll want to see this."

Stirling peeked over his wife's shoulder as she flipped through the glossy pages. Too soon, it was over. "Well, what do you think, Mrs. Howard?" he said in her ear. "Don't we do good work together?"

Kit's hand went to her waist - or, rather, where her waist _used _to be. "I certainly hope so," she said with great seriousness.

**the end.**


End file.
